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Monthly Archives: February 2014

Some times I feel
so out of things I
just clean out the menagerie
let the caged creatures free
even the bad, chained, good-
morning-Clarice
serial perpetrators of
the dark, disturbing things that
make life interesting
their words capturing
things
so differently.

little or nothing
to do with
self-improvement
it
does not
usher through radical
changes in lifestyle (unless
floating down the Seine
in Rimbaud’s
boat)
it does not implore
you to stand
at the centre
make the
world’s arena your
stage (or
vice-versa), maximize
every ounce of
sinew swinging
gladiatorial sword
as
gauntlet gets
thrown down in challenge
to every Empire

nor does it quietly ask
as if
burning-bush voice
seething religious injunction
to look down
into the molecule, behold
the passion of God

and in
that
flow beyond order, size
shape and structure,
travel at
mind-
bending
speed on

the back of
a metaphor approaching
terminal velocity
(centuries of
world time
crystallized in
an hour)

and let us, until this
is remembered, until
it has fully
re-
wired, burnt
new paths in the brain

the silence is deafening
a blonde boy
sojourning on the beach,
the tide out, hoping
for the Sun to Apollo him

here
the sea shows only
contempt for mountain
how easily whole Everests
might be swallowed

beneath those waters
words are
unnecessary, conspicuous
by their absence, not even

but here we are (the arrow points,
the cross-hairs collect) gathering
shells: one, two, four
five, now
we have an arrangement, something
that might lead logically
to discussion of rhythm (as
in that
of the waves as Fibonacci sequence.

Oh, I conjure him
in my mind’s eye (we are
cerebrally, everyone
a Nobody, all
Polyphemus)
feet shunning the Atlantic
as if Canute contesting
with Poseidon over
true regal status

so much to
defend against invasion
when it comes to
reputation, each
of us can
build our own Festung Europe
when we fear an inclination.

Now what are
they, what are they
in their
nature
Emperor Aurelius, what
do they represent

these graves
of broken ego (beautifully
exoskeletal), shells
of
a
dead language

monuments to
minute softness in
the flesh
waiting for time
to do
its magic, work
its stuff?